


The Mark of the Sire

by The_Plaid_Slytherin



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Prophecy, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:40:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24515518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/pseuds/The_Plaid_Slytherin
Summary: Kester thought it was just an odd birthmark. It is much more than that.
Relationships: Lowborn Man Who is the Subject of a Prophecy/King Who Destiny says He Must Impregnate, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44
Collections: Original Characters & Original Works Flash Exchange May 2020





	The Mark of the Sire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nimble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimble/gifts).



Kester was three miles outside Lalagen when they ran him down. One of the bastards smacked him across the face with a gauntleted hand; the other ripped his shirt off. 

"Here we are," he said, lifting Kester off his feet and tossing him over the back of his horse. "Let's get you to the king."

That blasted mark. 

Kester had never imagined a birthmark could cause so much trouble. He had not even considered it could be the Mark of the Sire until Nayma had pointed out to him that it looked like the mark on the public notices. 

That was when he had decided to run. Nothing good could come of having that mark. 

He wasn't sure where he was running to—he'd have to leave the kingdom, but who knew how far they would extend their search. Kester knew the prophecy as much as any of the king's subjects—he who bore the Mark of the Sire was good for one thing and one thing only. Once the king was knocked up, they would probably kill him. 

At least they didn't ride all the way back to the capital with him over the back of the horse, only to their camp. After that, he got his _own_ mount, but his hands were bound, which was almost worse than before. 

He might have been excited for his first glimpse at the capital but it was somewhat anticlimactic when what lay at the end of the road was one fuck and all-probable death. 

Plus, everyone was staring at him. The clattering of the portcullis of the king's keep behind him might as well have been his death knell. 

"Come," one of his guards said, "let's get you cleaned up," as though they had not been the ones responsible for his shredded shirt and the dirt on his face. 

As they led him through the castle, he tried to memorize his route, but they took so many turnings, some of which seemed meant merely to confuse him. Why would they go up a flight of stairs and then _down_ a flight of stairs? 

Finally, they led him to a room with a bed and they at last let him sleep. He slept after he had determined there was no chance of escape from the window—it was a sheer drop into the moat, and Kester was sure he'd seen an alligator. 

The next day, he had a bath, a haircut, three meals, and a new set of clothes. 

"For your wedding," the servant who brought them told him.

Kester flopped back on the bed. He had not expected a wedding. What sort of theater was this? He supposed it would not do for the heir—the future monarch—which he was to sire to be illegitimate, so he would have to marry the king. It did make a sick sort of sense, if he had not gotten the short end of the stick. 

He rubbed the mark on his back, though he couldn't feel it and once again cursed the accident of his birth.

**

Kester was awakened before dawn and made to dress. He was glad they got him up so early because the clothes he had to put on were more complicated than he was used to. Then, they came for him to lead him to the chapel. 

None of the corridors looked familiar from the other day, and the staircases seemed endless. Finally, they reached the ground floor, crossed a courtyard, and entered the chapel. 

He had known this was the royal chapel, but he hadn't _realized_ it was the royal chapel until he was marched down the hall of mirrors (he supposed his new haircut was rather flattering) and into the vaulted nave.

And there was the king. 

King Ronan was as handsome as the bards said. Perhaps Nayma had been wrong about them being paid by the crown to sing his praises. Or perhaps they were, but they weren't wrong about this part. 

His golden hair shone in the light from the high windows and, perhaps it was Kester's imagination, but he looked as nervous as Kester felt. 

And then they were married. 

It wasn't precisely that quick, but Kester did not actually listen much to what the Most High and Reverend Priest of the Realm was saying. Did it matter when he was only there to knock up the king?

After they were pronounced married, they were ushered out of the chapel, as though something shameful had just transpired.

 _Yes,_ Kester thought. _They feel guilty about killing me._

This was a different way from where he'd been before. He didn't know how to get back to his tower prison, but he knew he'd never been here. _This place is too bloody big._

He glanced over at the man who he supposed was now his husband. Ronan was not looking at him. He was looking mostly at the ground.

The priest stopped in front of a pair of high double doors. "And beyond here none can tread save the Sire and the Sovereign."

The entire retinue bowed, and someone managed to open the door while bowing which Kester found impressive despite the circumstances. He opened his mouth to say something—he had yet to speak in his husband's presence—but the king stepped resolutely forward without saying anything, so Kester copied him. The door closed behind them with a very final sounding thunk. Somewhere, chapel bells tolled.

"All right," Kester said. "How do we start?"

The king turned sharply. "Where are you from?"

"Samarfa," Kester answered self-consciously. "I am one of your subjects, you know."

"I'm sorry, I just didn't recognize the accent. We don't get many from that far south in the capital."

"I see they made an exception for me." Kester was trying to get a surreptitious look at his surroundings—rich hangings, junk everywhere no one would ever miss if he knicked a vase or a candlestick.

"What is your name?"

He didn't even know his name? Kester remembered now that it had not been said at the ceremony. The bastards who'd run him down had not asked it. He'd assumed they'd known it but perhaps not.

"Kester."

"Kester what?"

"Kester nothing." He went to table and lifted a heavy gold bowl. Was it real gold?

"I'm sorry." The king turned away, looking almost embarrassed. Then he turned back to Kester. "My name is Ronan. It's nice to meet you." 

"I wish I could say the same." 

Ronan flushed. "I am sorry if you were ill-treated. I think many of my men may have been overzealous in their search for the Sire." 

Kester grit his teeth. Overzealous was perhaps an understatement. 

"You are my consort now," Ronan went on. "And so you are entitled to better treatment. If you would name the men—"

Kester had no idea of their names, so he shook his head. "You said consort."

"Indeed. We are wed now. We are meant to rule together." 

"Rule together?" Kester set the bowl he was still examining down hard. "You're not going to dispose of me?" 

Ronan's blue eyes went wide. They were an impossibly clear blue, Kester realized, like the mountain lake back home. "Gods, no. I told Harmir that translation would be misleading." 

Kester sank unbidden into the chair behind him. He'd been afraid to sit in it before because it looked like it cost more than his entire life's worth, but his legs would no longer support his weight. "Translation?" 

Ronan pinched the bridge of his nose. "The version of the prophecy he insisted on circulating says the Sire will be disposed of when he is no longer needed. What it means is that it means that the entire kingdom will be at his disposal—because he'll be ruling beside me. I _told_ him no one would know what it meant." 

"'The disposal of the Sire will be affected immediately following consummation,'" Kester repeated. 

"Exactly." 

"I'm very, very sorry." Ronan knelt before him. His eyes were still very blue. Kester couldn't stop looking at them. "I hope it doesn't put you off marriage."

There were lots of things that ought to have put Kester off marriage, but he could not remember them now. Ronan's hands were on his thighs and he was looking up at him. 

"I'm still not entirely sure what happened." 

"That's fair." Ronan rose. "We needn't do anything about it tonight. My ministers will surely be after me but I can fend them off." He smiled. "May I see the mark?" 

Kester saw no reason to object. He undid his shirt and let it fall from his shoulders. 

Ronan made a low noise. "So it's true. Not that I didn't believe those who verified you were marked. But it's nice to see it for myself." 

He traced it gingerly with his finger, making Kester shiver. He leaned back into the touch, despite himself. There was no reason not to enjoy it, he decided. Ronan laid his palm on the mark, gently rubbing. Then, Ronan pressed his lips to it, and Kester could not hold back his hiss. 

Ronan's next kiss landed on his shoulder, the next on the base of his neck. 

"Let me know if you want me to stop," he murmured in Kester's ear. "I couldn't help myself when I saw it. It's… it made me think of what we'll do." 

Kester's cock twitched, despite himself. "What we'll do," he repeated. 

"You'll fuck me and we'll make a baby." 

The hairs on Kester's neck were standing on end. He turned so he could look at Ronan properly. "That is what the prophecy says, isn't it?" 

"Yes." Ronan's hand came up to stroke Kester's face. "If you wish it." 

His thoughts had suddenly become very incoherent; he could no longer remember why he hadn't wanted to do this tonight. 

"I wish it," he said, and tilted his husband's face up for their first proper kiss. 

Ronan made a small, pleasurable noise, spurring Kester on further. This was perhaps very awkward, but it could never not be awkward, he supposed. Two strangers, now engaged in this most intimate act. At least they could be awkward together. 

It did not take long for his shirt to fall all the way off him, followed shortly by his pants and all of Ronan's clothes. The bed, which he'd thought too big when he'd first entered the room, now seemed perfectly accommodating as they dropped onto it.

They spoke little, aside from Ronan gently correcting Kester's position. There was a moment of absurdity when Kester realized how ridiculous it was that he was fucking the king, but Ronan did not seem very much like the king. He was just a man he'd met—and married, yes—but if he thought of it as meeting for a fuck, it was surprisingly easier to get on with.

And he certainly forgot all his reservations when he was inside Ronan. Ronan, who never took his eyes off Kester, or stopped touching him, or kissing him, or telling him how wonderful he was, even while he was thrusting into him. Ronan made it seem like more than it was, like it was more than getting a fuck over with because a prophecy said they had to fuck. 

And he found he liked seeing Ronan's face as he came, watching his eyes flutter shut, his throat exposed for kisses as the pleasure overtook him.

"How will we know it worked?" he asked. They had been silent for the first few moments, it seeming anticlimactic to talk much about it. Instead, he'd let Ronan hold him and play with his hair, as he thought about how little he would mind if they had to do this again.

"According to the prophecy, we should have conceived with that. But I suppose we won't know until—well, until we know I'm pregnant."

"So…" Kester wondered how to phrase this. There was much he didn't know about Ronan yet, but from what little he did know, he didn't think he would mind if he just spoke bluntly. So he did. "So, we can do this again until we're sure?" 

"Of course." Ronan shifted so he was looking down at Kester. Kester shivered, hoping he wouldn't mind if he asked to switch positions some time. "And even after that, I hope."

"Good." Kester yawned. There was surely a lot more to talk about—now that he knew he was going to live to see the dawn, they'd have to figure out how to build a marriage on… this. And he'd have to send word to Nayma that he was alive—and probably tell his husband he had a sister running a pub back in Samarfa who probably assumed he was dead. 

But all of that could wait until the morning. There was no reason to rush this getting-to-know-you stuff. 

It might take a while to get Ronan pregnant.


End file.
